Two Princes
by woodbyne
Summary: The why was easy; the how was easier still. Arthur had no idea how he'd attracted a successful businessman or a fashion designer, let alone how he'd attracted them both at the same time. And her certainly didn't mean to fall in love with either of them. Especially not both of them. FrUKUS: M for a damn reason.


**What's with the FRUKUS? **

**There are no excuses for this. Blame the Muppets. Yes, this was dreamed up while listening to the new Muppet movie soundtrack. I don't even either.**

**This is the much demanded Number Four from the poll on the author page! Go vote for your favourite plot to see it happen next!**

**Lyrics – Two Princes**

_One, Two,  
Princes kneel before you  
That's what I said now,  
Princes,  
Princes who adore you_

The _how_ was easy, the _why_ was easier still.

After what felt like an eternity of fighting, bickering, courting and generally trying to out-do each other with gifts, sentiment and sexual prowess, Alfred and Francis called some semblance of a truce and had coffee.

They sat across the little glass table glaring absolute daggers at each other.

It was easy to see why Arthur was torn, really, even if one were only to look at the cosmetic differences.

Alfred was tall, tan and angular. He had a straight nose, a square jaw. He was the very essence of a man. Everything about him was sleek and clean; the epitome of modern America from the heavy muscles that flowed from his broad shoulders to the long stride of his legs. From the proud way he held himself to his usual, easy-going smile – which was currently absent, replaced by a look of such stern disproval that any who knew him wouldn't have believed his laughing face capable of it (And Arthur probably would have paid to see). His sky-blue eyes were narrowed and his dusky pink lips were narrowed and set in a slight frown. Cold, grey light glinted on his simple wire-framed spectacles and shone dully in the gold of his artfully messy hair. His classic black business suit was crisp and clean and he sat rigidly, ramrod straight in his chair in the airy London café, looking squarely at the Frenchman across from him.

Francis was a study in relaxed elegance and refinement. With his high cheekbones and almost aquiline profile would probably look more at home on a catwalk than any male model ever could. His dress-shirt was open at the collar, a blazer thrown carelessly over his shoulders and yet somehow managing to look as though he'd just walked off the set of a photo shoot. He wasn't as tall as Alfred, nor was his colouring so bold; pale blond hair that fell in heavy waves to his shoulders and was presently tied back loosely with a leather thong. His eyes were a light, bright blue that always seemed to sparkle with mischief or intent, though at present they gleamed with malice. The Frenchman was an odd mix of bohemian whimsy and aristocratic charm; perfectly blended and propped up on his elbow at the glass table, eyes levelled disdainfully at his American rival.

Now, Arthur Kirkland – who wasn't present at this meeting – was at a total loss as to how he had managed to attract a successful American entrepreneur and a French fashion designer at all, let alone at the same time. He was of medium height and wiry, with dishevelled blond hair, larger than average eyebrows and a penchant for sweater-vests. Over all, he looked very much like one never imagines an author to look. Generally, in the mind's eye, one sees either a faceless figure slumped over a typewriter or a perfectly manicured member of society's upper echelons tip-tapping away at an expensive laptop. Arthur Kirkland was neither of these. He had a laptop that misbehaved and deleted his work, only to find it again after he'd re-typed, a moderately selling three books to his name. Moody, recluse and a grammar tyrant, writing really seemed to be his only redeeming feature, and as a person, he had been perfectly accepting of that.

That was, of course, until he ran into Alfred at a book launch. It was his book launch, and he was avoiding it until he actually had to speak. While hiding (excuse me, _waiting discreetly_) amongst the bookshelves, a chipper young man had asked him if he knew where the astronomy section was, because he had been recommended a great book on the atmosphere.

As it turned out, the book he had been recommended was a hoax, Alfred was rather put out. So much so that Arthur had taken him up on the offer of lunch, though he had had to speak first. The American had listened intently to the speech and promptly brought the book, coercing Arthur to sign it. Three pages in, he declared it the best book that he had ever read.

He had then hired a professional publicist to promote the book, which had proceeded to hit a moderate fourth on the best-seller list in the UK, and second in the US, where Alfred had more sway.

It was there that he met Francis. A popular designer Alfred had roped him into dressing Arthur for one of the now-too-many awards ceremonies he had been coerced into attending (the young American was really rather good at that; coercion.)

Francis Bonnefoy, as it turned out, had hands rather prone to wandering, which would only be found again when they gave a lingering stroke or an enticing squeeze to a particularly sensitive or private part of Arthur's anatomy. Still, this whole, 'being wanted' business was quite novel for the Englishman and it wasn't as though he and Alfred were dating exclusively, they just had coffee on occasion and the American would hang on his every word, even if it was only to scoff at it. It was … nice to have two gorgeous men doting on him, so the literary-inclined Brit took them both up on their offers of drinks or a meal whenever they happened to be in London. Which became increasingly more often as their relationships intensified.

It was at this point that Arthur realised that he was – not to put too fine a point on it – right royally _fucked_. Honestly. He had ended up falling headlong for two men at the same time. Two gorgeous, wonderful men, both of whom put up with his short temper and recluse nature, both of whom treated him so well. Asking him to choose between them was like asking him which of his lungs he favoured more. That would actually be an easier question. Alfred was his sweetness, and Francis his passion. They had both managed to become essential parts of his life, things that he couldn't believe he had done without all these years. He needed the American's robust, childish enthusiasm and goodness as much as he needed the Frenchman's charm, delicacy and passion.

He'd gotten them together. Told them that he was cheating on them with the other. Told them that he couldn't possibly choose between them because he loved them both equally. That had been a hard conversation, the hardest he had ever had. Arthur had expected them both to leave him; that's what you got for being greedy isn't it? He had been so sure that his avarice was going to cost him dearly.

They had been hurt, it was true. Francis had gulped his wine, but aside from that and a subtle pursing of his lips, it had been almost impossible to see. The Frenchman was all about emotions, when to show them and when to hide them. Alfred was less subtle, his brows pulled together in confusion, his mouth fell open into an 'O' of shock. He could honestly give a kicked puppy a run for its money in the pathetically adorable and guilt-inducing stakes. Arthur held his head in his hands, unable to look at either of them.

"Cher, I hope you don't think that I will be leaving you over this?" the Frenchman had said quietly, something Arthur couldn't place burning in his pale blue eyes.

"Well that makes two of us, Francy-pants, because I'm staying." The Englishman looked up and between the two men across from himself, who were presently glaring daggers at each other. Disbelief flooded Arthur. They were going to stay with him? Even after…? Neither of them was happy about it, that was for sure, but they were staying.

"Excuse me," the Englishman had said, pushing his chair back and going to the restroom. He needed a minute to gather himself, despite how ridiculous it felt. This was going to take a little bit of processing, but that was fine. It was still only a quick-fix; he would have to choose one eventually, but it worked.

Unobserved by the object of their shared affections, Alfred turned to Francis, "May the best _man_ win," his voice was imbued with pure venom.

"Indeed, _boy_," the Frenchman returned coolly.

But that was six months ago. Right now, the rivals were sitting across from each other in an al fresco coffee shop in the London area, and wishing each other grievous bodily harm.

"I'm glad you came," Alfred said, voice crisp, clear and slightly nasal in the thick air.

"Likewise, we have something important to discuss," Francis' icy demeanour hadn't dropped, but he looked a little world-weary, "I'm afraid I cannot be the one for him. I see how he looks when he thinks about you, and I can't match that. We're tearing him apart."

"Bullshit, have you seen the look on his face when he's missing you? He's head over-heels for you, it wouldn't be fair of me to try and make him fall in love with me in the same way," Al scoffed, heart breaking a little bit more with each word.

"He loves us equally," the Frenchman sighed, trying to see the future in the cold skin that had formed on his macchiato. A future without Arthur didn't seem like any kind of possibility, "But differently."

The American sighed as well, both of them staring into their respective beverages and thinking. It was a pain to know that you could never fully satisfy the one you loved. He loved them equally, after all, and for different reasons. Slowly, Francis looked up, a devious grin dawning bright and clear across his features, "Alfred, _cher_-"

"Not your '_cher'_, Bonnefoy."

"Oh, but you _could_ be."

Alfred's eyes narrowed, "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You were taught to share your toys as a child, were you not?"

After about a minute of frowned contemplation, comprehension blossomed on the American's face.

~====o)0(o====~

Going to a fancy Italian restaurant dressed in bespoke French fashion was becoming a surprising reality for Arthur Kirkland, and one he was only partially comfortable with. It wasn't that he didn't think that Francis was genuine – why the hell would he have stayed through the humiliation of having his boyfriend love another man if he wasn't? – it was just that he couldn't seem to wrap his head around either of them. Oh, well. It was time to put Alfred out of mind; tonight was Francis' turn to be loved. And God, how easy that was. Loving both of them, each for different reasons was as easy as breathing. Only breathing generally wasn't accompanied by a crippling sense of guilt.

Straightening his tie, the Englishman walked up the maître di and smiled politely. He'd come here often enough that he was a familiar face, and the other man was … unsympathetic to his plight. There was a slight smile on his face as he said,

"Table for three today, _sir_," and lead the way to the usual table.

To say that the bottom dropped out of Arthur's stomach wasn't entirely accurate. To say that it felt the way he imagined it might if his internal organs were being dissolved by acid, was. True to that smarmy git's words, there were Alfred and Francis, sitting side by side with a single chair across from them, and in his mind Arthur likened it to the infamous Busby's chair – the one that would kill any who sat in it. So this was how his heart would break.

And yet it still beat faster in his chest as they saw him and smiled in unison.

Seating himself, the Englishman looked between his lovers a little sadly. So now he was made to decide? Could he really pick one and knowingly hurt the other? No. Fine, the path of least resistance would be to hurt all of them and break it off with both. No sweetness for him, no passion.

"The jig is up, then?" he smiled weakly, afraid that the answer was yes.

"In a manner of speaking," Francis said at the same time as Alfred answered,

"Sort of."

"Explain?" Arthur croaked. The anxiety this entire situation was causing was not good for him in the slightest. Surely his blood pressure was through the roof.

The American and the Frenchman exchanged a look. No, not a look, and the Englishman at the table was sure he was hallucinating, a _smile_. Together, they put their left hands on the table; on the third finger of both was a plain gold band. _This is so much worse than I could have expected. I think I'm going to be sick,_ the green-eyed blond thought; the blood draining from his face. They had… They were? Together?

Their right hands rose, both holding onto a small, velveteen box, pushing it across the table towards Arthur. He looked up at their smiling faces and gulped, then back down at the box, which he took in a shaking hand. Thumbing the lid open, he promptly dropped it. The golden ring nestled in the plush velvet looked exactly like the one that the other two were wearing. It couldn't be. Looking confusedly from one to the other, he managed to force the words from his numb, clumsy lips,

"Are you? You're? You're not suggesting that we?" Arthur was tripping over his words like roots in a darkened forest. They caught at the ankles of his thoughts, pulling them down, stopping any form of coherent sentence.

"We don't want to hurt you anymore," Francis murmured, taking Arthur's left hand.

"For you, we can get on," Alfred added, finger's intertwining with his right.

"We can share."

~====o)0(o====~

Jackets, shirts and ties were shoved, ripped and pulled from three bodies as the trio stumbled against the wood of Arthur's bedroom door. Alfred was behind him, grinding against his arse, arousal evident through the taut fabric. The American nipped and licked at the side of his neck, leaving a trail of hickies that no scarf or polar-neck was going to be able to cover fully.

Francis was at his front bucking his hips against Arthur, pushing him back into the American and drawing gasps as their erections pressed together through the material of the their trousers. The Frenchman decorated the other side of his neck with love bites, and as if on some unspoken agreement, Arthur's attackers switched sides, re-marking him all over again, the sensitive skin of his neck re-bitten and kissed, making him shudder and gasp as he was pinned mercilessly between them. A rock and a hard place. Francis' hands moved down to squeeze his arse at the same time as Alfred's moved up and under his shirt. Nails scraped along his skin and across hardened nipples, earning a strangled moan from Arthur.

This was an assault on his senses. His eyes couldn't decide where to look, which one of them to look at, his ears were full of disjointed moans and groans, and his body was flushed hot and delighting in the sensation of four hands rather than two. Just then, the hot, wet mouths removed themselves from his skin to meet in a furious kiss over his shoulder. Arthur was pressed even tighter between the two, and to see them getting on was … he wasn't going to lie, it was hot. Very hot, and so was his skin. There needed to be far fewer clothes between the three of them.

They had come back to Arthur's place for a drink, just to talk over this new arrangement, to figure out what exactly had happened to make this such a wonderful reality. Of course, they hadn't gotten much further than one scotch when Francis' hand ran up his left thigh, and Alfred, eager to join in the fun, had leant in to trace the cartilage of the Englishman's ear with his tongue. It had all gone downhill from there.

His suitors pulled apart and looked at Arthur, their kiss-bruised lips set in twin smirks of intent that made the Englishman shiver in anticipation. Large, rough hands – he wasn't sure whose – turned him between them and suddenly those smiling mouths were against his, faces pressed so close that if it weren't for Francis' stubble, he wouldn't know who was who. Two tongues pressed insistently against his lips, demanding to be let in. The Englishman caved under the onslaught, opening his lips and welcoming a gloriously messy kiss. It was hard to keep track of who was where, their flavours pervading his mouth and mingling pleasantly on his tongue.

The three of them toppled onto the bed, wriggling out of their pants and groaning in delight as their desperate shimmying ground them together in the most pleasurable of ways.

It had to be Alfred who spread his legs and began to prepare him, because his large hands were warm and calloused in a way that Francis' were not. Besides, Francis's stubble was busy rubbing up against the inside of his thigh, soft tongue teasing Arthur until he moaned his appreciation of the two digits that were sliding in and out of him torturously slowly and the mouth that was just too cruelly ignoring his erection. Alfred's fingers were sending electric sparks rolling up his spine and through every nerve he possessed, while the Frenchman kneeling before him only served to make him harder. Another finger, stretching him at a glacier's pace. For someone as bloody impatient as the American was, it was alarming how long he could take to enjoy himself in this kind of situation. Another long, slow lick to his desperate member. Teasing enough to keep him rock hard but not enough to make him cum.

Four fingers, he could feel himself give and yield to Alfred, and if he wasn't quite so wrapped up in pleasure, he would have yelled at the lad to _hurry the fuck up_. But instead a breathless gasp ejected from his lungs and shockwaves of sensation when rocketing to his fingers and toes as he felt the knuckle of the American's middle finger push past his entrance.

"Oh, _God_! More, Alfre-ah! Fra-_ah-ncis_!" his moan of the American's name was cut off as the Frenchman's lips closed around the head of his cock and he began to suck, tongue flicking at his slit. He was almost sad when you blond behind him stole his attention back by pulling four fingers back and thrusting his whole hand in. Francis' mouth had moved down to his sac and Arthur was a demanding mess, instructions for faster and harder and more falling almost ceaselessly from his lips.

"Ready, babe?" Alfred's husky twang was raw with want as it ghosted across the Englishman's skin.

"_Just get on with it_!" Arthur groaned; so far past the point of no return that he couldn't find it with the Hubble telescope if he tried.

"_Comme tu voudrez_," Francis purred, sitting up and licking his lips, "Spread your legs a little more, _mon amour_, or we won't fit."

"Wha-_ah_ ngh!" Again, the American managed to cut off Arthur's words, thrusting his fist into the Englishman's prostate before pulling out completely.

"We're going to _share_ you," was the soft answer to his unfinished question.

Arthur widened his stance.

First, Francis moved in closer, pushing the head of his cock past the author's stretched entrance. That was fine. Easy, they'd done that as many times as Arthur had taken the Frenchman. It was a good feeling; being so intimately connected to one's lover.

"Ready, _cher_?" A deep breath and a nod later and Alfred was nudging himself into place beside Francis while the Frenchman's hands drew calming patterns on the Englishman's back.

Strangely, though the pain – not as bad as it could have been, Arthur made a point to thank his American later – this felt perfect. He was so completely connected with both of them. One arm moved back to hook around Alfred's shoulder and tangle in the American's hair while the other did the same to Francis, bringing them forward as Arthur slowly began to move, raising himself up and lowering himself down on trembling thighs. His nerves were overwrought; there was too much pleasure in his system.

Alfred's hands clamped down on the islander's hips, helping him move while his pressed his face into Arthur's back, silently praising every sound the Englishman made. Francis' lips caressed the Englishman's neck, his hands stroking his cock.

Arthur's head tipped back and mouth open, his body moving in slow undulation. The way the three of them were moving, the pressure on his prostate was almost constant and it wiped his mind completely. He couldn't seem to think; only move.

Faster and faster.

Harder and harder.

"Gah! _Fuck_ I'm close!" Arthur's words were rushed and loose, barely managing to make his mouth form the sounds that it was supposed to, "If- ah! If you two _duh_ogdearGod don't cum with me- _aahn_~!" the Englishman's threat was never finished, as his lovers shared a wicked look, deciding to up the pace yet again, making him bounce on their cocks. That was more than enough to push him over.

Another moan of unmitigated pleasure rolled from Arthur's lips as Alfred and Francis released inside him. Together, as they had fallen to the bed the first time, they collapsed, panting and spent.

Perhaps it was because he was the youngest of the three, or perhaps it was because he had the body of an athlete and the stamina of a horse to go with it; either way, it was Alfred who heaved himself up on steady arms first.

"C'mon guys," he yawned poking at the other two, "No one is going to be happy if we wake up like this tomorrow. We need a shower."

An arm extricated itself from the pile of limbs that was Arthur and Francis, feeling around blindly, it found Al's head, stroking his hair briefly before forcing the young American to the bed.

"Afterglow, lad," the Englishman grumbled tiredly, "Learn to enjoy it. We can shower in a minute."

~====o)0(o====~

"You think this will be okay?" Alfred asked Francis as they wandered around their lover's kitchen, jointly preparing a breakfast that was part grease-trap, part gourmet and all delicious.

"_Oui_, this should suffice," the Frenchman nodded, hands on hips as he surveyed their spread. It wasn't the best meal he had ever prepared, given what was in Arthur's fridge.

They turned in unison as they heard the swearing and stumbling that meant that the final member of their trio was currently limping downstairs. He came into view on the landing, obviously still half asleep and having put on the first shirt that he found. Which was definitely not his. Alfred's, judging from the width of the shoulders and the length of the arms.

"Okay, Francy, you've got to admit; our boyfriend is _smoking_ hot in my shirt," the American said, smugly proud of the picture the Englishman presented.

"You're right," Francis nodded appreciatively, "That never would have worked with one of mine."

"_Oi_! What the bloody hell do you two sods think you're gawking at?"


End file.
